It started social—
   the grown-up kind of night
   where everyone pretends they’re not excited yet.

Ray’s in the City:
      Blaschke,
       Lizz,
        Gabe,
         Gabe’s wife—

      the trivia team in civilian clothes.

Steak on my plate (of course),
      and Mari doing what Mari does:
      blending in,
      naturally belonging,

      smiling the room into kindness.

After dinner,
      Nero back to Intercontinental
      a quick regroup,

      the familiar breath before the leap.

Then: The Eastern.

Back to where it all started—
     our first meet,
     a little over a year ago.

Same building, different us.

Line wrapped around the place
     like Atlanta wanted proof.

I found the side door anyway.

We swooped in
   as if we’d done it a hundred times.

Rooftop first—
        city lights behaving,
        a night so pretty it felt staged.

Then downstairs:
     a few Owls,
     some peers,
     a couple strangers with nametags…

     a little meet-and-greet
     to satisfy the universe
     that I’m still socially compliant.

And then—
    the show.

Big Boi and friends,
    bass in the ribs,
    lights in the eyes,
    Mari and me…

    disappearing into the music
    like it was a private room.

No one else in there,
   as far as I was concerned.

An hour passed in two seconds.

We were already moving toward the door—
                 Intercontinental Time,
                 the part of the night
               where everything clicks.

And then Jay caught us
            mid-escape:

            “You aren’t even gonna say bye?”

WOOPS.

Manners found,
        a laugh,
        a quick chat,

        the world acknowledged.

Then Lyft,
     then Intercontinental,
     then heaven again—
     the quiet that fits us perfectly,

     the bed that remembers our names.

And of course—
    no alarms.

We slept into morning.

Poor Mr. C.
Again.

I owe you, sir.
More than burger can repay.

Morning arrived like a siren—
              I had to leave.

Packing frantic,
        waking Mari up,
        turning her frantic too,

        shoes on, hair wrong, hearts full.

Nero and I dropped her at home,
     a goodbye that felt like a stolen page,
     then off to the airport—

     the wheels of reality rolling back under us.

What a fucking weekend.

The Eastern, Part II:
              dinner,
             rooftop,
               music,
                exit, (almost)
             mistake,
          redemption,
              reward,
               sleep,
            scramble,
             goodbye.

Same place as the beginning—
              but this time,
 the story knows what it is.

And so do I.